


Future Writ in Blood

by Verasteine



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-27
Updated: 2009-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-07 09:47:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verasteine/pseuds/Verasteine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere out there, Merlin knows, is an arrow, a lance, or a sword with Arthur's name already on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Future Writ in Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [](http://lefaym.livejournal.com/profile)[**lefaym**](http://lefaym.livejournal.com/), for the very speedy and thorough beta, and the willingness to take on my first Merlin piece; your notes were very valuable indeed, especially the grammar lessons and the reminder that Arthur is, in the end, a prat.

There will be one day, Merlin knows it like he knows his destiny, that he'll have to watch his own heart break in front of him. But for now, the simpler things keep him grounded.

Arthur comes off the tourney field with bruises, always, and Merlin catalogues them as he peels away the layers of armour, mail, and padding, and then finally Arthur's thin shirt, soaked with sweat and sometimes blood. And Arthur stands there, quiet, no real words except the odd direction, and even that soon becomes unnecessary between them, because Merlin learns the shifts and tensions of Arthur's body; he hasn't known anyone like that since... He can't really find a comparison, if he's honest.

Arthur stares out the window, often, into the afternoon sun, or, like now, because it was a long match, a setting one. Merlin makes silent note of the dark, purple bruise left by a blow with a shield, on Arthur's right shoulder, where a line darker than the surrounding area denotes where the shoulder plate of Arthur's armour was pushed violently into his skin. Merlin remembers watching that moment, a good fifteen minutes into the fight, and fidgeting that Arthur would drop his sword from the blow.

He should have more faith in the prat; Arthur had steadied his grip with no more than a blink, and parried with his shield while doing it. The art of swordfight is ingrained in him, in a way something could be ingrained in a person of their age by learning as you grow, Merlin knows; he has a similar gift, a similar fluidity.

A drop of sweat makes its way down Arthur's left cheek, and he blinks, while Merlin turns to put the shirt down, and notes the broad red line on the unbroken skin of Arthur's back, from a blow with a sword that had been stopped by Arthur's mail. Merlin remembers the moment that Arthur had spun past his opponent, allowing a gap in his defences, taking the hit, and then spinning back around in a way few knights ever did, knowing unfailingly where his enemy stood, and that the euphoria of a direct hit had made his opponent drop his guard.

The fight had ended with the next stroke of Arthur's sword; first blood drawn by a swipe down his opponent's arm that had scored a light, measured line across his sword hand. The people of Camelot, still hushed from the blow their prince had taken, had erupted with loud cheers, getting to their feet as one.

Arthur had taken the applause, the congratulations, and Uther's proud nod in his stride, and left the tourney field with Merlin in tow, to stand now, as always, quietly, staring out across the palace courtyard, while Merlin stripped him of the defences that kept him hale.

There will be one day, that there'll be one fight too many. Merlin knows this, like he knows they're two sides of a coin; like he knows that, in the end, he'll never hate Arthur, not even for the things he does to Merlin's kind, in Uther's name. It's taken him long, very long, to understand that; a long time to believe in the truth, the real truth, of his destiny, to learn to live it and breathe it and acknowledge its inevitability.

That he's learned to love Arthur along the way, a deep, abiding, inexorable love that's settled in his heart, is the price he pays for his gifts.

The courtyard is mostly quiet, the occasional guard making his way across, a serving woman fetching water at the pump, a page carrying a message to someone unknown, but always one lone person before the other, never more than one. It is the hushed silence of a Camelot that's done for the day, that's seen its rightful place confirmed; a Camelot that's preparing for the night to come, a private celebration that'll shut out the cold of oncoming winter behind the palace's closed doors.

Arthur still stands quiet, as Merlin takes an oft-used salve off a shelf and applies it to the harsh bruises that marr Arthur's skin. He can see the twitch of Arthur's mouth, the way Arthur sets his face in careful neutrality, as if no bruise could truly hurt him, and Merlin wonders, thought flitting across his mind, what Arthur would have been like if he'd grown up an ordinary boy, what man he would be if Uther hadn't made him the realm's hero by placing crown and expectation on his head with a heavy hand.

It doesn't do to dream when your destiny is inescapable; it doesn't stop Merlin from disliking Uther for reasons that go beyond the slaughter of his own people. Sometimes he berates himself, for caring more about the one than the other, or enough about the one to make the other fade even a little, but he's loved Arthur long enough now that he knows it won't change.

Uther will die, and Arthur will be king, and one day Arthur will ride out of the castle and not return. One day, there will be a campaign, a skirmish, a battle, and Arthur will come back bloodied and beyond Merlin's hands and skills to save. On the days he thinks of this, he studies harder with Gaius, and on the nights he dreams of it, he forces himself to lay awake in his bed and let time fade the image, instead of walking the halls of the castle until he finds himself at Arthur's room.

Having your destiny tied to that of a king is a glorious thing indeed, Merlin thinks, but it's more glamorous when stories are told of it than when you live its reality, bruises and arrogance included.

Arthur turns, suddenly, just slightly, with more caution and less grace than he did on the tourney field today, favouring his right side, and Merlin blinks himself alert.

"I'll get your bath ready," he says, before Arthur can speak, and wonders if he wants Arthur's silence in these post-battle moments.

Arthur's mouth twitches again as he turns fully, and Merlin busies himself with the bath, and not looking at Arthur's chest as Arthur stretches the aches out of his muscles carefully.

In so many ways, Uther Pendragon _is_ a good man, a fair king, a protector, a saviour even. And Arthur will be a good king, a better king yet, because of Uther's education.

Arthur loosens the ties of his breeches, and bends over to step out of them, and Merlin takes his quick moment of distraction to heat the bath to the appropriate temperature. Arthur slides in with a hiss, the only sound of discomfort he's made so far, and leans his head back against the edge of the tub.

Merlin stands, mouth dry, watching him; the water lapping at his chest, the steam reflecting in his eyes, until Arthur closes them and lets out a sigh. Merlin wants to say, _give it all to me_, and knows he can't, and wonders if he ever will, before it's too late.

There aren't enough tourney fields in the land to save Arthur, not enough knights to stand by his side, and not enough time to broker the peace that's needed. Arthur, whose destiny is mapped in the scars on his skin. Merlin, whose destiny is to watch Arthur's blood flow through his fingers.

Two sides of a coin, indeed.

Arthur opens his eyes, watching him. "Merlin," he says, giving Merlin's name the heavy note that's intolerable from anyone else, "you may go."

"Yes, sire," Merlin replies, and gives Arthur his last smile of the day, before closing the door decisively behind himself.

\--  
_finis._


End file.
